


i will sing to the stars in the sky

by radianceofthefuture



Series: Joy [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Catholic School, Catholicism, Choir AU, M/M, Musical Theatre Singalongs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 16:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14216808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radianceofthefuture/pseuds/radianceofthefuture
Summary: A chasm could open at this moment and plunge Petit-Picpus Catholic School into the depths of the Earth, and Enjolras would, in all likelihood, dimly register the change in temperature without even raising his head from his score.High school choir AU wherein Les Amis are every group of choir kids that have ever been left unsupervised.





	i will sing to the stars in the sky

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I finally included other characters!

The choir room is too damn loud.

Sister Simplice is out today with the vicious strain of flu that has been methodically cycling through the entire faculty and student body of the school, and Sister Bernadette, a timid young woman who normally teaches ninth-grade algebra but has been drafted to cover the choir classes, is far out of her depth trying to control thirty upperclassmen with big voices and bigger egos. The inevitable result is that everyone in the class is doing whatever the hell they feel like doing while Sister Bernadette sits at the desk in the corner and tries to look inconspicuous.

Bahorel, Courfeyrac, and Cosette have commandeered the piano and are in the midst of a very enthusiastic if not especially tuneful musical theatre medley. Joly and Bossuet are seeing how many pencils, erasers, and various other unlikely office supplies they can stick into Éponine’s hood before she notices and kills them. Feuilly, Musichetta, Grantaire, and Jehan have broken into Sister Simplice’s file cabinets in search of the sheet music to a specific Icelandic folk piece they sang as freshmen and want to revisit, and most of the rest of the class are on their phones. There is only one person still trying to work.

Enjolras’ headphones, clamped tightly over his ears and undoubtably causing his hair to do something ridiculous and gravity-defying, are blaring the practice recording of the tenor section from the piece they’re performing in five days, and he pours over his sheet music with a singleminded focus that borders on terrifying. A chasm could open at this moment and plunge Petit-Picpus Catholic School into the depths of the Earth, and Enjolras would, in all likelihood, dimly register the change in temperature without even raising his head from his score.

As it happens, it doesn’t quite take a chasm.  
One second, Enjolras is absorbed in concentration. The next thing he knows, he feels a pair of arms wrap around his shoulders from behind, followed immediately by thick waves of hair brushing against his cheek, and he slides his headphones down around his neck and turns to face Grantaire.

“I’m trying to work, R.”

“And God knows how,” Grantaire agrees, moving his hands to pretend to adjust Enjolras’ school uniform tie. (It is a pretense. Enjolras’ Windsor knot is impeccable, and the only possible outcome of fiddling with it is to fuck it up completely.) “Rock concerts and rocket launches have nothing on unsupervised choir kids in terms of decibels. I’m surprised Javert hasn’t come storming in here yet.”

Enjolras half-smiles and half-scowls. Javert, sophomore social studies teacher and legendary hardass, harbors a deep and simmering resentment for the floor plan that forces him to share a classroom wall with Sister Simplice and her choristers, and is well known for bursting in during especially raucous rehearsals and threatening to report them to administration for disruption to the learning environment. He has never once acted on his threats.

“Better hope not - Sister Bernadette might just have an aneurysm.”

They both turn to look at where Sister Bernadette is cowering. She has sunk so low in her chair that only her neck and head are visible, and is clutching her rosary with wild eyes.

“I can’t really blame her,” says Enjolras, leaning in a little further to be heard over where Combeferre has apparently been dragged into the singalong (“Come on, Ferre, this is your part, I know you know it!” “Fine, fine - I’ve been studying the Kabal, and I’ve calculated the number of the Beast - it is Napoleon!”) “We have to perform this in less than a week, and even I’m finding it hard to concentrate.”

Grantaire looks at him, frowning. “Apollo,” he says softly, “you have the piece down pat. You don’t need to be torturing yourself over it. It isn’t productive. There’s nothing wrong with giving yourself a break now and again.”

“But I already did give myself a break when I should’ve been practicing,” Enjolras is quick to remind him. “Remember the other day?”

Grantaire looks dazed for a second thinking back, before shaking himself out of it. “You knew the piece then, and you know the piece now. It’s okay to relax, Enjolras. You don’t need to be in scary-classically-trained-tenor mode all the time.”

Enjolras hesitates. Sure, Grantaire has a point; he’s had the whole program memorized and polished for months, so he’s not really accomplishing much by fixating on it, but he can’t help but think that it might not be enough, and the only way to make it perfect is to keep practicing. Cutting practice short to make out with Grantaire in an empty choir room is acceptable on occasion, yes, but he can’t make a habit of it.  
He’s about to say that no, he really needs to keep going over this score, regardless of what the rest of the choir is doing, when his choice is made for him.

“E!” Courfeyrac calls across the room to him. “Get your little blond butt over here - we’re doing ‘Superboy and the Invisible Girl’ and we need you to be Gabriel.”

Enjolras freezes, then looks at Grantaire, who smiles at him. Go, he mouths, tilting his head in that direction for emphasis.

Enjolras goes.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Joy, composed by Hans Bridger Heruth.
> 
> Comments are encouraged and appreciated. You can come find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/radiance-of-the-future), if you’d be interested in that.


End file.
